Noah Stilinski knew the sound of his street.
After years as sheriff — after years of grief, routine, and quiet — he knew every normal sound by heart. The mail truck. The neighbor's sedan. Kids biking past too fast. The occasional engine that didn't belong but never stayed long enough to matter.
So when he heard that car, he knew immediately it wasn't normal.
The engine was smooth. Controlled. Not aggressive, not rushed. Whoever was driving knew exactly where they were going — and wasn't nervous about it.
Noah paused mid-step in the kitchen, coffee forgotten in his hand.
The sound slowed. Turned.
Stopped.
Right outside.
His chest tightened before his mind caught up.
He set the mug down slowly and walked to the window. Pulled the curtain back just enough to see the street.
A black car sat at the curb.
Not just any car — sleek, low, unmistakably expensive. Completely out of place in front of his modest Beacon Hills house. It looked like something that belonged in a city, or on a track, not here.
Noah frowned.
Instinct kicked in.
He grabbed his jacket and keys before he even realized he was moving.
By the time he stepped onto the porch, the driver's door had opened.
A boy stepped out.
Tall.
Lean.
Still growing, but already shaped by discipline rather than adolescence. His posture was calm, balanced — not stiff, not slouched. He moved like someone who knew where his body was at all times.
Noah's breath caught.
The boy turned.
And suddenly, the years collapsed.
"Stiles?"
The name left Noah's mouth like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly.
The boy's eyes lifted — sharp, familiar, impossibly steady — and then something softened in them.
"Hey, Dad."
Noah didn't remember moving.
One moment he was standing on the porch, heart pounding in his ears, and the next Stiles was there — close, solid, real — and Noah's arms were around him, holding tighter than he meant to.
Stiles hugged back just as hard.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Noah closed his eyes.
His son smelled like soap and road dust and something else he couldn't place — not Beacon Hills, not childhood. Something older. Something earned.
"You're… you're here," Noah finally said, voice rough. "You're really here."
Stiles pulled back just enough to look at him. "Yeah. I am."
Noah cupped his face without thinking, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones like he used to when Stiles was small and scraped his knees.
God.
His hair was long now — not messy, not careless, just free. It framed his face in loose waves. His jawline was sharper, his features more defined. The boyish softness was gone, replaced by something calmer. Stronger.
"You're taller," Noah said faintly.
Stiles snorted. "You always say that."
"Because you keep doing it," Noah replied, a laugh breaking through the emotion despite himself.
Then his eyes drifted — to the shoulders beneath the jacket, to the way Stiles stood — and Noah's smile faltered slightly.
"You've been… training," he said.
Stiles nodded. "Yeah."
Noah swallowed. "You look good. Healthy."
"I am," Stiles said quietly. "I promise."
They stood there awkwardly for another moment, seven years of distance hovering between them like something fragile.
Noah cleared his throat. "Come inside. Please."
Inside, the house felt smaller.
Or maybe Stiles just made it feel that way.
He set his bag down by the stairs and looked around slowly, eyes lingering on the old couch, the photos on the wall, the framed picture of Claudia still hanging where it always had.
"You didn't change anything," Stiles said softly.
Noah shrugged. "Didn't feel right."
They sat at the kitchen table — the same one where Stiles had done homework, spilled juice, argued about bedtime.
For a moment, neither knew where to start.
Noah broke first.
"How… how have you been?" he asked carefully. "Really."
Stiles took a breath. "Good. Tired sometimes. But good."
"That's it?" Noah asked gently. "Seven years, and that's all I get?"
Stiles smiled faintly. "I didn't know where to start."
Noah nodded. "Fair."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "What have you been doing all this time?"
"Training," Stiles said. "Traveling. Learning."
"Learning what?"
"How to think better," Stiles answered honestly. "How to take care of myself."
Noah's eyes flicked toward the window, toward the black car still parked outside.
"And he bought you that?" Noah asked flatly.
Stiles followed his gaze and winced. "Okay, yeah. That needs explaining."
"I'd say so," Noah replied dryly. "Because last I checked, sixteen-year-olds don't usually show up in Beacon Hills driving cars worth more than my house."
Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "It was a gift."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "From your teacher."
"Former teacher," Stiles corrected. "He retired."
Noah paused. "Retired from what, exactly?"
Stiles met his eyes. "I'll tell you. Just… not today."
Noah studied him for a long moment.
This wasn't secrecy for the sake of hiding things. This was restraint. Control.
"Okay," Noah said slowly. "I trust you."
Stiles looked relieved.
Noah leaned back in his chair. "You've changed."
Stiles nodded. "I know."
"Not in a bad way," Noah added quickly. "Just… you think before you speak now."
Stiles laughed. "You say that like it's a crime."
"It used to be impossible," Noah said with a smile.
They talked for a long time.
About the places Stiles had been — mountains, small towns, long roads. About the discipline Ronan had taught him. About routines, early mornings, hard lessons.
Noah asked everything a father would.
Did you eat enough?Did you get hurt?Were you ever scared?Did you ever want to come home?
Stiles answered honestly.
"Yes.Sometimes.Often.And always."
Eventually, Noah glanced at the clock. "Scott's at school."
Stiles nodded. "I was thinking of going to get him."
Noah smiled. "He's going to lose his mind."
Stiles stood, grabbing his jacket.
At the door, he hesitated.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks," Stiles said quietly. "For letting me go. And for waiting."
Noah swallowed. "I never stopped."
Stiles nodded once and stepped outside.
Noah watched as the black car pulled away down the street.
Seven years ago, he'd let his son leave because he believed it was necessary.
Now, watching him return — stronger, calmer, still Stiles — Noah knew he'd made the right choice.
Beacon Hills had no idea what had just come home.